I got a text from a wrong number. Forlorn little words:
“Are you still going out with me?”
There were no mobile phones when I was a teenager, thank God. (Can’t ask what that is, they might laugh or worse they might tell)
Tear a page out of your rough book, write a note and send it mate-mail to the boy (Stephen Peavey, graffiti, spots; how do you wear mascara without smudging it?) who’s ignoring you, more like. Less could go wrong, plus it was free.
I thought I’d better reply (cold but carrying my coat to hide the Asda bag my mum put my swimming things in) – I could afford 12p to put a young girl’s mind at rest:
“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number but I hope you track the bastard down soon!”
I giggled a bit. (He’s going out with Julie Fender! He can’t. He can’t! ) I thought I felt vicarious pain. I sent the text and went back to work.
I found a voicemail when I got off the train that evening. (Grey skies, Newcastle suburbs, older girls with long legs and huge art folders.) It was from the wrong number girl:
“I’m really really sorry about that text but I didn’t mean it, I thought it was someone else’s number. (My cousin crying in the games cupboard; I use deodorant and I still sweat.) You see, what happened was, we were outside Littlewoods, right, and I met this lad, right…”
(Metro station, cola bottles, bulging blazer pockets, how long can I wait for him to turn up but not get in trouble?)I took the phone away from my ear, unable to listen anymore.
I never have to be fourteen again!
PS – I am having problems formatting this. I think I have confused RB with my brackets and italics. Please bear with me while I tinker and come back and read it again if you like it!